He drags me forward, and the world goes black. My next sense is that we are halfway up a sloping wall of rock and scrub. Zito no longer carries his spear. One arm is wrapped around me; the other pulls both of us upward.

I hate this. I hate the fear. I hate that I must be helped.

Darkness looms. At first I take it for a shadow, but my hazing vision clears to reveal a small cave, just large enough for me to crawl inside.

“You go first,” I say. “Pull me in.”

“Shhh,” he whispers, gently easing me sideways into the narrow opening. “Hide here. I’ll run back to the castle and bring help.”

I grab his arm. “I’ll go with you.”

“No.” He hands me the knife, hilt first.

“You’ll need it if they catch up to you!”

We hear voices in the distance.

“I must run,” he says, pulling the knife back with reluctance. “Stay quiet. Stay alive. I’ll be back.”

And just like that, he slips away. Tears well up in my eyes. I tell myself it’s from the pain. That’s the first thing I must do, then. Bind my ankle. Immobilize it and stop the swelling.

I scoot farther back into the cave, where the higher ceiling allows me to sit upright. The sun is above the horizon now. Enough light filters in that I can see my ankle.

It would be better if I could not. It is purple and swollen, and my foot turns at an odd angle. It’s not broken—it’s dislocated.

I’ve dislocated fingers several times. There is nothing to do but yank them back into place and bind them up until they heal. Surely the principle is the same with an ankle. The good news is that the pain will be much diminished once I accomplish it. It might even support my weight, should it come to that. I unlace my boots, then brace my foot against the wall. I lean over and press my fingertips into the swollen skin, looking for the right grip. Red spots dance in my vision.

I take three deep breaths and shove my ankle into place. Bone scrapes bone. The cave darkens.

When I come to, I am dizzy and my vision is blurry, so it is a full second before I realize the shadow leaning over me is a person. I prepare to strike, hard and fast, when a small hand covers my mouth.

A girl’s hand. Lupita’s hand.

“Your Highness,” she whispers, her voice trembling.

“Lupita!” I grab her and hug her tight. “How did you—?”

“I’m sorry! I just wanted to find the scarlet hedge nettle. For the flowers—”

“I remember. You’ve been here all night?”

She buries her head in my chest. I stroke her hair.

“What happened, Lupita? Tell me. But do it quietly.”